


Paradigms in Motion

by misura



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry had come to him late in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradigms in Motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evandar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/gifts).



Poetry had come to him late in life. It had let to the floor of his room being littered with crumpled up (and mostly empty) pieces of paper, thereby lending it a remarkable resemblance to the floor of the room of his visitor, who had been, for the past few hours, sitting on his bed, watching him fondly as he once again took a stab at what might go down into history as his master piece.

A true artist, of course, could never be properly appreciated during their lifetime. Whether or not a master piece might actually see the light therefore depended on your definition of 'proper'. The young man's landlady, for example, would have said the young man's visitor appreciated him in a manner that was extremely _im_ proper, seeing as how she did not hold with such things as young men watching other young men composing poetry. (Had she known the true meaning of that persistent cough she had been complaining of for the past three months, she might have been more charitable. Or possibly not.)

"Hopeless." A newly crumpled up paper joined its comrades on the floor.

The not poetically inclined young man watched its descent with a slightly rapturous expression. He was, it should be said, a kind soul. A bit odd, perhaps, but capable of seeing beauty where most people saw only the opposite. That was poetry, too, of a kind, one might suppose.

One would be entirely wrong, but still. Supposing is always allowed. All part of free will.

"Perhaps you could throw your ink pot at the wall again," suggested the young man on the bed. The ink had made some very interesting patterns on the (previously pristinely white) wall. The stains were still faintly visible, in spite of the landlady's best efforts.

"She'd kick me out for sure this time. I'd end up in the gutter, or worse."

The young man on the bed tried to imagine worse places than the gutter. His mind conjured up visions of clean, pristine rooms with not a speck of dust anywhere, with all the furniture arranged _just so_ , the smell of lemon and soap hanging heavily in the air. He shivered slightly. "Well, you could always move in with _me_."

Few people had ever made such an offer to the young would-be poet. None of them had not been associated with some sort of medical institution.

"It _would_ save on rent, I suppose," he said, looking thoughtful.

"You could bring your desk. There's plenty of room. It would be perfect."

"Well. I guess one place is as good as any to - you know."

The silence that had been comfortable up until a few moments ago turned slightly awkward. Things were, indeed, happening between the two of them. Some of them were even exactly the kind of things the young man's landlady would describe as 'filthy', never realizing for a moment how right she was, how fitting the adjective.

Some things that were happening, though, were things that had never happened before. To anyone.

Poets were rarely known for their optimism or cheerful outlook on life, but even so. Even so, both young men felt deeply that their current circumstances would not last, that something would soon irrevocably change, and that life, after, would never be quite the same.

Although 'life' might not be quite the right word, considering.

The young man on the bed cleared his throat. "Yes. Exactly."

"I'm going to need a hand with the desk, I think."

"Of course. No problem at all. Happy to help."


End file.
